


the red of blood is more livid than you think

by Siera_Writes



Category: Radiohead (Band)
Genre: D/s elements, Height Differences, M/M, Smut, circa 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: The song finishes in a cacophony, Ed's feedback squealing and wavering in an oddly delicate manner, in counterpoint, as always, to Jonny's ragged playing style and savage strokes. It's a thrill to seem him like this, let loose, and uninhibited, so unlike himself when around anyone but the band. Thom shivers, find himself grinning over at Jonny, more a baring of teeth than anything resembling joy, strumming in a frantic rhythm to bridge his and Ed's playing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah that's an ostentatious title, but it came to me once driving to one of my friends' houses, during the summer, and I saw some roadkill, and that phrase was legitimately a sequence of words that was in my mind, so I spent the rest of the car journey repeating it to try to remember it. And finally, in October, when I started writing this, it had a purpose. Usually things don't take me this long to write (sure there's time in between things, but whole chapters don't). There'll be a following chapter, hopefully of a similar length to this, but I really needed to post it in halves to give myself a kick up the arse to get it done. So I will. At some point.
> 
> Not entirely sure I'm happy with the characterisation, but I'd written so much that it felt like it was worth continuing, so I did, and it grew far, far longer than I first intended. Feels a bit gratuitous but yeah...
> 
> Follow me on tumblr, my url's eviljaffafish.
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

Thom doesn't remember when Jonny got like... this. Thom's scouring his thoughts as they play, feels the audience's eyes on them, hands working up and down the fretboard on autopilot, breathing deep and pushing with his diaphragm, trying to recall when Jonny seemed to shake his coltish slenderness, grow into his frame. He's always been tall – though being taller than Thom isn't exactly something difficult to manage – but he never really carried an air of intimidation, ethereal as he was, even when he went wild on stage. Thom thinks it's something to do with how he still seemed too similar to the boy he once knew.

Now, Thom find himself tracking Jonny's movements throughout the show in his periphery; how he hunches over his guitar and still manages to seem oddly hulking. He's not the most well-built of people, but it's enough of a pronounced difference to intrigue Thom. He wonders what else he's been blind to, if he hasn't noticed something as obvious as his friend's physique.

The song finishes in a cacophony, Ed's feedback squealing and wavering in an oddly delicate manner, in counterpoint, as always, to Jonny's ragged playing style and savage strokes. It's a thrill to seem him like this, let loose, and uninhibited, so unlike himself when around anyone but the band. Thom shivers, find himself grinning over at Jonny, more a baring of teeth than anything resembling joy, strumming in a frantic rhythm to bridge his and Ed's playing.

And then the lights come down, sound cutting out as they finish in unison, and Thom can't see, just breathes shakily, shoulders raising and lowering with how his lungs are working. He blinks into the audience, feels how tacky his skin is, affixes his hand around the microphone where it's cradled by the stand, as though requiring its support. He's buzzing under his skin and excitement's roiling in the pit of his stomach. A dozen flashes go off in the front rows – heavy cameras with bug-eyed lenses glinting as the stage lights come back up again, less harsh, white now – and really, that should've told Thom that something was happening.

He feels an approaching presence to his left a split second after a few isolated whistles and cries from pockets of the audience close to the stage, turns to face whoever it is in mild surprise, skin prickling, even as he _knows_.

Jonny's posture's always been lacking, seeming to want to hide from himself, and this moment is no exception. His hair casts deep shadow over his face, head bowed, but this close, Thom can see his downturned features, follows his gaze, down, down, to his right hand. Jonny's cradling it close to his stomach, just above the body of his guitar, and in the neutral lighting, Thom can see full-well it's due to injury; deep red seeps from twin gashes in the muscle at the base of his thumb.

Thom starts, adrenaline spreading through him unsettlingly at the sight as he grimaces, uncurling his left hand from the third fret where he was lightly dampening the strings, making to grab for Jonny's hand, then aborting halfway through, feeling an unwelcome burst of impotence. He can't do anything for Jonny here, can't really help him at all.

He realises there are eyes on him – not just those of the audience, whose gazes he can almost ignore now, but those of his friends, and stage technicians, and even roadies in the wings. Colin's heading over in concern for his brother. Jonny must follow Thom's wide-eyed stare – he draws taller unconsciously, turns to wave him away, and Thom blinks, glancing away to the crowd, then at Colin, schooling his expression as best he can from what it was – probably a pure, slack-jawed fascination. He could forget about most anything, lost in the music and sharing it with Jonny; even, simply, in his company.

Colin withdraws to his customary haunt near the drums, having stepped away – reluctantly, he can tell - and Thom can better see the blood. It glistens slickly, a sluggish trail marring Jonny's pale wrist, its path curling over the the heel of his hand under gravity's influence. Thom shifts on his feet, uncomfortable in a sudden rush, exhilarated too, and with how close they still are, he has to tip his head back a little further than usual to look directly at him. Instead of having to crane his neck just as uncomfortably, he sweeps his left leg backwards and swings his hips to the right, so he can manoeuvre his guitar and face Jonny properly.

He doesn't look to be in pain, but it could very well be down to the high of performing on stage, drowning the sensation beneath immediacy and nerves. Yes, that's it, and it explains the pupils, just a bit wider than they should be, the intensity of the look he's receiving. Thom scans him brusquely up and down, ignoring his frame, which in his mind is incongruous with even the very concept of the man in front of him, swallowing as he reaches for Jonny's palm, hesitantly now, waiting for him to flinch away, but he doesn't, he lets Thom take it, and Thom does, reverently. Jonny's hands and mind gave the band their first break, and he'll be damned if he doesn't acknowledge that by at least showing some gentleness.

Jonny doesn't move as Thom brings his hand higher, just lets him move his hand to better see it, raising it to the well-illuminated space between them, manipulating the angle and orientation with as much care as he can muster, feels the heat of his flesh and the relative cool of Jonny's fingertips, as he inspects it. Closer, Thom can see it isn't as serious as it looked – sure, there's a lot more than he'd have expected for two shallow cuts, but perhaps to be expected after playing a song with a tempo like that, and especially after playing it like he did. It's an unbroken crimson sweep. He feels the unsettling urge to break its line, rid his skin of its marring.

Thom blanches, flicks his eyes to the body of Jonny's guitar, scanning across it for evidence - to distract himself - and surely enough, spots the offending screw in the pickup, spotted with red, as is the white pickguard. Jonny follows him, grins sheepishly as Thom quirks an eyebrow, relief flooding him even as he speaks with playful archness, smirk pulling at his lips. “You ought to sort that out. Can't be having you nearly bleeding out every set.”

Jonny laughs sheepishly, swats at him with the injured hand out of habit, but smiles as he rears away a little from where his terrible posture had him drawing close, small and soft. Genuine. “It's not that bad.”

Thom hums, pursing his lips and tilting his head from left to right quickly, as though weighing it up, motioning to shoo him away as he turns back to the waiting audience, leaning to the microphone theatrically, removed from it as he is. “False alarm everybody, he'll be fine.” He can feel the technicians relaxing in the wings, held breaths released. Thom shakes his head at Jonny, who's backing away shrugging, smile widening slowly, mischievously, before he brings the back of his hand up to his mouth to shield it from view – a lamentable habit, he's always felt, but insecurity is an affliction all of them know well - eyes holding Thom's, shoulders hunching with muted laughter. And oh, that isn't fair at all.

Thom frowns in mock consternation, looking up to the heavens and sighing into the microphone, and the audience – bless them – lap it up.

All of a sudden, though, Thom's struck with the realisation that Jonny knows.

It hits him with much less of an impact than he would've expected. You could even call it anticlimactic. A lurch in his stomach, a swirl of dread, quickly carried away by the blood pumping through his own veins, like water down the drain.

Jonny knows about the little air of attraction that's always floated between them, the draw Thom's had to him since they started playing properly, and Jonny became much less the annoyance tagging along with his older brother, and far more an individual, a musician in his own right. Someone capable, able to understand Thom's thought processes in a way he's taken advantage of. But there's more than that: of course there is.

It's unmistakable that Jonny's pretty in an almost painful way; Thom isn't surprised that it's brought him the trouble it has over the years, lumped attention on him that for someone as shy and self-conscious as he, is very much unappreciated. It doesn't mean they haven't played off it, joked around between themselves after photographers and journalists and inane, mind-numbing questions have tailed off, left unsatisfied with the lack of ground they're willing to give to sensationalism and gossip. But Thom's always taken their back and forth teasing at face value: a show of affection between close friends, something gentle and not once with the suggestion something existed there to be acted upon. But he's not sure of that now. He frowns at the floor by the scuffed toes of his shoe, snatches of conversation and the settings they were in, the interplay of their body language flashing together. No, this won't do.

His lips draw thin as he grimaces, just briefly, confusion heavy in his mind, returning his attention back to the crowd, to address them properly, introduce the next song in a typically bizarre manner with whatever pops into his head, but his mind's elsewhere, focus off. So, while he know the next four songs well enough that he could perform blindfolded - whilst singing along, to boot - he can't exactly give his all; he's worried, worried at how much of himself he must've been showing, accidentally. Foisting upon Jonny, his best friend, who's had to just graciously smile through it, react in kind to stop it from being uncomfortable. Thom ought to apologise to Jonny. Maybe it's seemed like he's been coming onto him. He doesn't want it to be awkward between them, would rather nip it in the bud. As soon as they're both off the stage, he'll make things clear. Yes, that's the right thing to do.

\---

He finds himself drifting along when the set's complete, the usual abundance of energy he'd have conspicuously absent, lined as his stomach is with dread. He feels a little leaden: this isn't exactly a conversation he's ever wanted to be having – if anything, he'd banked on never having to speak of it. Jonny's good, and smart: he can't not know - what kind of fool is he for thinking he's been able to hide his feeling from Jonny, it must've leaked from his pores - but he's allowed Thom to feel comfortable as he possibly could with his latent attraction, even with how wary he must've felt...

Thom clicks his tongue at himself, at the uncharitable thoughts he's having. Jonny's never been judgemental, ever, and he's one of the most tolerant people Thom's knows. There's proof, in that Jonny has already dealt with Thom's bullshit for years. He's always been there for him, is the only person able to properly transcribe his thoughts correctly enough to make the music he wants. Jonny won't react badly, and Thom's a bastard for even entertaining the thought for one minute that his best friend ever would.

Still, he's scared.

He walks into the backstage area, taking in the peacefulness of it before people gradually begin to filter through, conversations meshing and intertwining into a buzz that riles him. Even feeling as exhausted as he is, he finds himself shifting restlessly against the wall, leaning heavily against it to the point his spine aches, then pushing off it with an irritable growl, drumming his fingers against his thighs. His tee clings uncomfortably, and his hair's growing out too long, and yet still won't adhere to gravity's expectations, all in ridiculous tufts. He hates it, all of a sudden, reaches up with both hands to scrabble at his skull, disgust lurching through him at the damp of sweat there. He needs a haircut as soon as possible. It's late now, far too late to find anyone at this hour, and they have a flight to catch tomorrow, but maybe – maybe - he can fit something in in the morning, if he just gets up early enough – yes that's a good idea – and he can sleep on the plane, and it will all be fine-

Hands affix gently around his wrists. Large hands, bigger than his. Jonny. Jonny's here, and he's gently lifting Thom's hands off and away from his scalp. All of a sudden, Thom's fight goes out of him. He leans back limply against the wall, base of his skull impacting somewhat jarringly, feeling a cool, removed kind of curiosity spread though him, almost zen-like. “Jonny?” The other man looks straight at him, concern edging his features. Thom must look a state.

“Yes, Thom?” Jonny's voice is soft and undemanding, as always. Thom could close his eyes and imagine they were back ten, fifteen years ago, when Jonny was still his oddly waiflike presence. But he's not. Thom shivers, only partly from the breeze people's passages washing cool air over them from the corridor. Jonny's hands are still loosely circling his wrists. Thom blinks away from meeting his gaze, and Jonny seems to understand, or at least to get into his head, letting his hands slip from Thom's arms, so they swing back, just allowing them to dangle as he inhales, exhales, smooth and rhythmically for a minute.

People are bustling, excitement weaving. He hears snatches of conversation, all blurring, rising and falling: a cacophony. Eyes skipping across his form from the crowd building. They're on him, and on Jonny. Their little congregation is surely turning the heads of the press. Thom bolsters enough energy to push himself up off the wall, using his spine, so he rocks forwards on his feet, unsteady all of a sudden.

He knows Jonny instinctively raises his hands to steady him if he needs it, but it appears to Thom's wounded psyche as though he lifted his hands to defend himself from an onslaught, and Thom cringes, lurches away, feeling sick all of a sudden. A drink, he wants a drink. But they don't do that anymore – he doesn't do that – and he doesn't want to see the disappointment that would surely spread over Jonny's features at the sigh of him getting shit-faced, and withdrawing.

Fuck, he was supposed to talk with Jonny. He needs to, clarify their stance, make sure Jonny's comfortable and doesn't feel forced to act in a certain way. His eyes skip past Jonny's every time he tries to engage, so in the end, he gives up on the act. It's too difficult, and he feels as though Jonny'll see straight through him anyway. He clears his dry throat, kicking up an itch there, strained as it is after singing, and coughs. Jonny's eyes are still boring into his - unusual for the man, averse as he is usually to prolonged eye contact, but then, there's always been something deeper between them, and really Thom should cut off those thoughts right there, because he's creating a little glow of hope he doesn't need, doesn't deserve – but they soften, he can tell.

“Are you okay, Thom?” His heart drops. He isn't used to being addressed by Jonny as if he's glass. Anyone else, then yes, but not Jonny. His throat feels worse, feels thicker, the beginnings of an obstruction. He doesn't want to cry. He balls his fists and grits his teeth and speaks as calmly as he can through a forced smile, pleasant and natural as he can manage.

“Jonny, we need to talk.”

He must've failed somewhere, maybe the panic in his veins bled through into his tone, because fear passes over Jonny's already large eyes; a slight widening, a loss of focus – the glassiness of receding briefly into your own thoughts and memories whilst trying to seem still present in conversation – and then he's back.

But he's not. He's backed off, even if not physically. Thom knows; he can tell.

“I'm sorry Jonny, I don't want to discuss it here.” He's sure his own fear made his words clipped and curt – certainly more than he meant it to sound – but the reaction he sees isn't what he was expecting: confusion flitting across his face, quickly gone, but Thom saw it. His gut rolls at that, sickness rising again in a wave. They're having two different conversations here.

He shoots his hand out, falling back on instinct, grasping at Jonny's shoulder and resorting to merely clutching the material of his sleeve, not trusting himself not to trail his fingertips and betray himself. He sets off at a quick-march, Jonny stumbling at first in his haste to follow, before matching Thom's strides. Easy for him. Everything's easy for him.

He's not sure where he's going, and he quickly dropped his hand from where he was tugging Jonny along, cringing as he did so. Even thinking about it now as he restlessly ploughs down corridors, not at all prescient of what exactly he's looking for - if, in fact, he's searching at all – makes him clench his teeth. Most likely, he's continuing just to put off the conversation he's all but begged for. He's like a child, wanting something and then going back on his promises. And so demanding. It's no wonder they're still here, with him: his own friends probably dread the prospect of having to say no to him. Jonny's quiet now, hasn't spoken in minutes, and the crackle of his thoughts – Thom could practically hear them – has died away, leaving Thom feeling an odd sense of being adrift, cut lose. He doesn't know what his best friend is thinking, and it fills him with an odd dread.

Finally, Thom gets the feeling he's close. Almost like the light has changed. He's breathing a little more heavily through his nose, and he can feel his pulse, but it's only a mild exertion. They've ascended quite a few flights of stairs in their wanderings – or rather, Thom's – but he wasn't sure of just how many. The door ahead of them is nondescript, dull. If anything, it's a dead-end. But Thom feels the stupid, childish urge to reach out and try, to push his luck, as always, even as he feels Jonny dropping back like flotsam in his wake. He can imagine the chiding he's about to receive, but, strangely, nothing comes. The bar across depresses easily, and on smooth hinges the roof access swings open.

Up here, on the roof - where they're not supposed to be - there's a noticeable difference in climate. The wind's stronger, and in the late summer evening, he's treated to a graduated sunset, a swatch of colours in the sky all leeching into and through one-another, livid sun glinting off steel and glass from the behemoths around them. It's warm enough that Thom can bear standing bedraggled, tacky with sweat, without a jacket. Any cooler, though, and he'll get uncomfortable. He takes it all in for a minute, just stands and breathes deep, caring only very slightly about the pollution probably rife in the air: a sunset like that is never quite the same as one in the wilderness. Like that time in the winter when he and Jonny played, out in the cold, on a hillside. He smiles to himself, a little sadly, lets the breeze play through his hair.

He knows Jonny's stood close behind him after a minute or two, couldn't not – not with how attuned he is. He just stays staring, sighs, tries to collect himself as best he can. Jonny seems to have set himself on a long game, refusing to take the bait and ask for the information, instead waiting for Thom to bore and give it up willingly. That's what's happened before, when Thom's felt playful and mischievous, felt like messing around, his attention span shot. But not now.

Finally, after Thom's repeatedly tried to psyche himself up, then floundered and backed out, finally, Jonny speaks. It's simple, snaps him from his panicked brooding. It's not a question, and it's oddly sure. More sure than he feels right now. “Thom.”

He turns, turns and looks. Jonny's got his right hand curled around his left arm, and it's so like him when he was younger, Thom could almost weep. He's beautiful in this light – pale skin lit golden, hair being lifted and falling periodically in the air's movement, its colour like ebony, eyes illuminated and suddenly startling; not the dark brown they could be discounted as on a first glance. Thom knew that though. He's known that for so long: most of his life. His own form casts a shadow on Jonny. With the low sun it reaches just below his chin. He's sure his face is saying too much, but in this moment, he can't bring himself to care. If he could keep this memory, remain here in this exact instant for an eternity, he'd be happy. It's peaceful, up here, above the city and the sounds of traffic that filter up. It's just them, and nobody else.

Concern. That's what's in Jonny's eyes now. Concern, and worry, his eyes flickering to the sheer drop only a few long strides away, and surely not, surely that's not what Jonny's imagining is in his mind. It's like the ground's dropped from under him, a cruel punch to the stomach, elation falling away as swiftly as it came over him: he realises his eyes are teary when a sudden, heavy drop falls from the corner of his eye, air suddenly cold on the skin it crosses, and Thom turns away swiftly, biting out a vicious curse.

His motion is halted by a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back with surprising force, and Thom forgets himself, humiliation and uncertainty broiling together with rage at what Jonny just assumed. He slaps Jonny's hand away, glowering, pulling himself as tall and imperious as he can manage, spits out, “What the _fuck?_ ”, laced with as much venom as he can muster. He thinks that at any other time, he would've been funny to witness – Thom, short and slim and bristling like a mangy tomcat, a kitten, pushing taller on the balls of his feet - but his capriciousness, his mood, all mix to mean Jonny must have no idea what he's doing. That's why he's stood there unsure and frightened, genuinely so.

Revulsion fills him and Thom steps back. Holds his hands open, palms facing Jonny in a gesture of peace. “I'm sorry, Jonny. I didn't mean to do that.” He receives merely a cowed nod in response, and downturned eyes, and Thom thinks he's finally acting the bastard he's always believed himself to be capable of. It's one thing to feel like the world's after you, jeering at you, chasing you to make sure they see your every mistake and then write about it, but another entirely to scare your best friend.

He haltingly steps forwards, reaching out, shaky, ready to be pushed away, worse, for Jonny to spin away and leave him. But Jonny does neither, doesn't even look up, and somehow, that utter subservience is damning. Thom speaks softy, like he's trying to coax an injured animal closer. “Look, Jonny, I'm sorry...” The words already feel stale. “I just wanted to discuss... something... with you, but it's nothing, it doesn't matter, let's just go back, and-”

“What the fuck, Thom?! You tell me that you have something to say to me, lead me all the way up here without once saying something to me, stride to the edge of the roof, then start crying. What the fuck was I supposed to think's going on? You can't just tell me it's nothing.” Thom's staggered by the fierceness of Jonny's words, his countenance. Jonny's brows are heavy, eyes flashing, mouth set. He's stood tall, tall and demanding, and for once, beside his best friend, Thom feels small, and rightly so. Suddenly he's the one finding it hard to meet the other's gaze.

Thom pulls at his hair fitfully again, sighs heavily, out of frustration at himself and his circumstances, rather than Jonny pushing the issue. He must be able to tell, because he lets Thom pass him, lets him wander towards the wall beside the doorway. No doubt he knows he could easily outpace and pin Thom down if he tried escaping back to the others, if indeed he could correctly loop all the way back. Instead of anything drastic, he heads for the wall beside the door, feeling that now, more than ever, its support would be welcome. Jonny follows: he knows, just as he's known every other time. He reaches it, practically falls back against it, tipping his head back and looking anywhere but at Jonny, sun's glare making him into a flat silhouette with mere suggestion of depth if he directs his vision further from the sun. He's thankful his hair's become overlong due to touring, if it means Thom can't see those eyes.

He inhales, then releases it all in a shuddering flow. “Jonny, I...” Oh god, he can see it now, he's going with inanity. But he's not sure he can phrase it another way - even _think_ of another way - bites it out with reluctance and acrimony. “... _like_ you.” He can't help squeezing his eyes more tightly shut to practically glower at Jonny, blinded as he is, just to get a read on his friend's reactions, to see if he can divine the flit of his thoughts across his face. He's left unbalanced by what he sees there: the slightest widening of eyes in shock, head raising up just slightly so he's no longer looking directly at Thom as he processes his words, before fixing on him again, intent, just as he'd examine some sheet music he'd written. Thom feels bared, vulnerable, close to sliding down the wall and resting his forehead against his knees and just staying here for as long as he can, cowering from the brunt of that focus.

The railing of the platform they're on, glinting as it is in the ebbing light, is suddenly fascinating to him; the way the reflected light warps and elongates with the shape of it along its cylindrical, shining, chrome surface. He tries to lose himself in it the way he can music, to blank out the thought process from Jonny he's certain this time he _can_ feel: it trips, and whirrs, and fairly glows, in his mind's eye. Finally Jonny seems to know what he wants to say; Thom can tell with how close they are, all of a sudden, from the corner of his eye, that his jaw's clenching, so he sweeps his gaze back to meet in the middle.

Jonny looks wrecked, and desperate, his eyes wide and imploring. This isn't what Thom expected, not at all, and his stomach drops, his thoughts swirl, he clenches his fists, and he hopes, just once, that maybe, he might get what he so sorely wants. He'd easily have given up fame, the fortune they have, when he was young, just for an affirmative to this longing. “Are you fucking with me?”

Thom shakes himself, both at the atypical crass bluntness of the question, and the quiver in Jonny's voice, almost hidden, but not quite well enough. A streak of misery flows through him, as he considers his response. “I... can be, if it's better for you.” He still hopes his honesty shows in his eyes. The sun's almost set behind the buildings, light out of his view, shadows creeping up the wall, and only the hair at the top of Jonny's head is illuminated with its fire, little fly-away strands fluttering in the growing breeze.

He watches as Jonny purses his lips, jaw setting obstinate, a flintiness entering his eyes that Thom rarely sees. He shakes his head emphatically, staring him down. “No. I need to know. Say it.”

Thom shifts against the rough surface of the wall, shivering in the cold and feeling his top clawed at by it. He juts his chin as imperiously as he can manage, steeling himself, but still shot through with an optimism he can't seem to dash. “Yes.”

The disdainful head tilt he receives tells him he needs to say it more plainly. “I'm not fucking with you. It's just taken me a long time to get round to it, that's all.”

Jonny's eyes narrow. “How long?”

Thom hums. “About two decades.”

Jonny opens his mouth in a soundless 'oh', visibly deflating. “Same.”

“Wait, what?” Now Jonny seems to be the one confused.

“I thought you knew, right away from the beginning...” At Thom's lack of interjection, he continues, gaining steam. “I mean, I wasn't sure. I just assumed you were being nice to me, or at the very least valued me as an asset too much. But that didn't explain why you actually seemed to enjoy my company. So I just kept my mouth shut. Kept quiet until I felt comfortable speaking up a bit more. I thought I was over it, at times. But you never really are, are you?” Jonny's slight smile now is winsome in its gentle wryness.

The cold's setting in, Thom notes, and he's shivering a bit, goosebumps crossing his flesh, but his focus is away from sensation, focused too intently on making sure what he's hearing is real, and happening, and not some fever dream.

The sun completes the last portion of its slow fall, and at last, they're in complete shadow, and the moment breaks, both of them blinking, scrubbing at their arms to try to use friction to return warmth to their skin. Thom ducks his head shyly, but can't keep the curling of a smile from his lips. His heart's beating a quick meter against his chest, beneath his flesh, and he wants nothing more than to pull Jonny into a hug, fingers practically itching with the urge.

He chuckles, feeling like an idiot. That they both are. Thom grins drily, letting his amusement colour his tone. “This... changes things.” And at that Jonny laughs, not worrying to cover his face, just lets it out, the strange waltz of their years together avoiding each other's toes in fear of offense or abandonment having been found pointless, and yet, there's a charm to it. Of course, this would be it. Courting unknowingly for twenty years. Who else could manage that?

Their laughter trails off, the silence becoming slightly strained, but not exactly uncomfortable. He feels like leaning into Jonny, but isn't sure how that would be welcomed. Even if they do have mutual feelings for one another, it doesn't mean Jonny would leap at a sudden change in their relationship. Instead, Thom shakes his head, tipping his head back against the wall – visibly backing off - and eyes Jonny. “I think we ought to go back downstairs now.”

Jonny replies with a hum of agreement, though there still seems to be a reluctance in his posture, but he recedes from where he'd been boxing Thom against the wall, unintentionally perhaps, but evident from having to move. Thom gives him one last smile, holds his gaze, maybe for just a tad too long – something he'd never have done before outside of a serious discussion – injects a little heat into it, because he can, no, can't he? And the look returned to his sparks a frisson down his spine.

“C'mon, let's go.”

As always, Jonny follows him into the ether.

\---

Nothing changes for a while. Nothing beyond the glances they share whilst performing, or over a meal, or whilst passing by one another – the same old raised eyebrows in silent communication, or slight smiles whilst Colin natters on – are now knowing, and sometimes Thom can make Jonny blush, glance down and away, smiling gently. One memorable time, Jonny returns the favour, and Thom stares into the glass of water, feeling content, just happy to _know_.

A few times, as they've always done to pass time on tour, they find themselves alone, free to mess around with their guitars, playing off each other, keeping up a casual back and forth of ideas: maybe a rhythm Thom's been unable to shake for a few days, sometimes a chord sequence Jonny wonders about – wonders if, just maybe, if might fit with those lyrics Thom showed him a few weeks ago – and Thom feels himself warmed by the sheer idea of Jonny thinking of what best might suit what he's written, even after a lifetime of it.

\---

It happens some time after the tour ends, frankly. Even after knowing each other – perhaps, especially after knowing each other – for so long, they all need their breaks, they need time to stabilise, readjust to life not in constant flux. They're tired, nervy, could feel snappish, and Ed's always been the first to say something. Whether or not they power though it is another thing, but, the five of them have always worked well as a unit, purely because that's what they've always been.

Returning home is difficult. In the first few days, Thom finds himself relieved; finally, finally he's able to take a break, not under constant scrutiny. But it's a thin lustre that quickly burns away, leaving frustration. It's not exactly logical, but when has he ever been – it's more based on remembering the thrill of a good performance and forgetting the hassle of everything else: the hell of promotion, answering the same questions over and over, cities and countries blurring together, claustrophobia, and stress leading to arguments and raised hackles and general unpleasantness that blows over within a few hours in the early stages of a tour, or churns for several days towards the end. They're petty, sometimes, but then so's he. And they all laugh about it later. It's always okay.

Enough time has passed that Thom's well into the stage of being bored out of his mind. He's sequestered himself in music, and even that's not enough. His mind's bubbling with _the idea_ of sitting down to work, fantasy of tracks coming together heavy in his mind, but it's much too soon for that, and he has nobody to bounce ideas off, nobody to draw from, no closed loop, no amplification of ability. Because that's what they do, they feed each other musically, and every track has found its genesis in one of their suggestions. It's a much more level playing field than some people like to pretend.

He's sprawled on his sofa, forlorn, guitar long since left on the floor, notebooks and stray pages strewn across the floor, covered more in doodles than anything concrete. He's oddly tired and wide-awake, and really, if hell exists, then this is his purgatory.

The phone rings.

Thom hasn't been expecting a call, in fact, demanded that if anyone wanted to contact him, at least give him the courtesy of a text to warn him. He pushes himself up with his elbow, glowering, steps around the detritus on the floor, and out into the hallway, pauses before picking up the phone, then lifts it from the cradle, sets it against his ear.

“Thom?” He stalls in the middle of his half-hearted search for a nearby notepad and pen, having been suspicious of the caller's possible intentions. But at that voice, his stomach drops low, and he finds himself standing up straight, flexing the fingers of his free hand.

“Jonny?”

“Are you free?” Thom almost snorts in response, but thinks better of it – it's all rhetorical and if Jonny wants what Thom thinks he wants, then maybe flippancy isn't the best route. He hums in assent instead, feeling suddenly nervous, swallows.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Come round.” Jonny's voice is soft, as usual. It's somehow a command. Thom bites his lip.  
“Okay.” There's a click as Jonny puts the phone down, and Thom is frozen in place as his thoughts tick over, ideas that he's had but never really entertained, even now, flickering in his mind's eye, and he shies away, suddenly discomfited. It's not like Jonny hasn't called him before to work on stuff during their downtime; it's just, how does he know for sure what this is for – he feels like he's assuming far too much.

His mouth twists, and he frowns, all the while pulling on boots, his leather jacket, feeling that strange little surge of guilt he's always felt when he's tried to dress up a bit: to impress. He's always wanted to look cool in Jonny's eyes, have his actions noticed, even if it turns out in hindsight that he's made a fool of himself. He thinks of the mess in the other room, decides to leave it, grabs his keys from the table, and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this all in once go today, so if there are any mistakes, totally my fault, cause none of my stuff's ever betaed. Hope you enjoy, and please, comment if you enjoy. It took an anon comment to actually get me to sit down and write this, so, you know, it's definitely appreciated.

It's a short drive, but a long enough walk. He debates the ethics of walking – nice, autumnal day, a slight coolness to the breeze, but later without the sun, it'll be cold, and god knows he doesn't need an excuse to stay at Jonny's, so really, he should drive. But as he locks the door, turns to head down the path, the temptation to just walk past grows. Jonny's always been a good host. Even if his intentions turn out purely to be innocent, he'll offer Thom a place to stay anyway.

So Thom continues past his car, leaves it hunkering on his driveway as he starts up a confident stride, pace just a bit higher than his automatic one, and keeps them long, speeds his journey, head held high. It's better this way, he realises, with his hands clenching, fingertips brushing at the cuffs of his jacket, without meaning to – like this, he can burn away the adrenaline as it comes: not like how it is behind the wheel, with a sick feeling in your stomach, and nothing to do to dissipate it. But even with the nervy cold in his veins, the day in itself is pleasant. The sun's definitely lowered in the sky the past few days, autumn nights drawing closer, cooler, but it's still warm enough with the clear sky. He directs his attention to the nature around him – birds darting between trees, insects still hovering around flowers and bushes, foliage beginning its russet turn.

For the time of day – mid afternoon: practically another day wasted – and for the climate, there are relatively few people out and about. As he continues his brisk strides, the odd car passes, but all in all, it's oddly quiet, and it does nothing to abate the odd, restless feeling sat square beneath his ribs. It's not like it's been before, when there could be a sliver of excitement under his skin at the ambiguity, at never being quite sure where he stood, although the torture of that at times, he'd never want back. Now it's an apprehension that he could end up baring himself to someone who means more to him than anyone else, and to be found lacking.

It's just like that fucking song of theirs.

He finds himself smiling at that, even grimly, because it's funny – it is – this whole thing being so cyclical. Who would've thought that this could've been the eventuality which unfurled itself before them... probably only Colin. Fuck, he'd joked about it enough. To be fair, so had he and Jonny, but that was because neither of them had even entertained the possibility. Thom shakes his head at himself, at them, exasperated, rolling his eyes and smiling again, barely, lips drawing thin.

The wind is picking up, just enough to reach for the warmth beneath his jacket and siphon it away, so he sets his shoulders and increases his pace further, feeling the sun dipping in the sky with how the chill's setting in. It's still lovely out, in a fragile way, the sort that's misleading to look at from behind the safety of a window; fragile, cool sun, boughs shifting and swaying gently, crisp, fractured leaves trembling, quite like him. The cold air makes his nose tickle with every breath, his eyes water slightly.

He's upon Jonny's home almost too soon. It's nothing out of the ordinary, and nothing about it has changed from the last time he'd been there. It's the same, average red brick house, dark brown roof tiles, lawn green and perhaps growing a little thick and unruly after the days of rain they have. There's a scent of cut grass from somewhere distant that Thom passed, but none from here. Jonny's car is unobtrusive yet slick. Everything is perfectly normal, but somehow, in Thom's mind, with apprehension and a thrill sparking through Thom's veins at the very thought of Jonny being _somewhere_ in that house, it all seems a bit more dark, like his memories are unreliable.

He proceeds up the path to the door, a richly stained wood one, with a window in the top fifth, reminiscent of a rising sun. Thom knocks, shoves his hands in his pockets, starts to pivot on his left foot and skim the toe of his right across the edge of the flagged step he's on. The tail end of some fragment of a piano melody drift to his ears, muffled by walls and windows, and he cringes slightly at the idea of having interrupted Jonny's playing. He tries to secret it into his mind; the notes were weaving and unresolved, some instability there, and somehow, Thom thinks it could just work as a piece. And then he hears the percussive crunch of a key in a lock, turns, sees the shadowy shape of Jonny, warped through the textured glass.

In all his varied imaginings – and, he has put quite a bit of thought into what his first reunion with Jonny would be like, with this new context for their relationship – he's never properly considered something as simple, mundane, yet terrifying, as the door being opened to him, and Jonny being stood there, simply dressed, without lights and crowds and eyes all over them and able to catch every little bit of them. Thom has to breathe in sharply, disguise it as a cough. He's so lovely, and so present, and _right there_. For the first time in Thom's life, in a good long while, he feels truly awkward around Jonny.

But Jonny smiles, shyly, and that's okay, pulls the door further open, moves aside, and Thom, although he's still clenching his hands into fists – though he'd been unaware of it – reciprocates, warmly as he can, steps inside quietly, heads to the stairs to seat himself as he pulls his boots off – Jonny believes in chi and Thom has found himself being quite interested in it too – then stands and moves to place them neatly beside Jonny's. He rights himself, standing tall as he can, claps his hands together, then exhales. Having nothing left to do to distract himself and help him affect an air of normality leaves him faltering, but then he catches Jonny grinning, failing quite poorly to hide it.

“What?”

“You've still got your coat on.”

“Oh.” He does... “Yeah...” Self-consciously, Thom reaches up to unzip his jacket, feeling suddenly hesiatant and unsure. It feels, out of nowhere, quite intimate, him undressing, and Jonny watching on with his dark eyes and a gentle quirk to his lips. Thom shrugs the jacket from his shoulders then, and passes it to Jonny, who duly takes it and hangs it up for him.

“Ever the dutiful host, Jon.” He makes it as teasing as he can manage, and feels the pleasure emanating from Jonny, even as he's turning away and moving to the kitchen, knowing Jonny will follow. This is more like it, this has always been them: Thom doing and saying stupid stuff, and Jonny playing along and being far more clever and vicious, but always waiting for the right time for it. This is what he wants, always. It's reassuring, and it's like home.

The kitchen is a clean, smallish space, feeling concentrated and tailored for usefulness. There's space to move around in, but none lavished on appearance's sake. There's a worktop, enough space to cook properly, and two stools tucked under a central island. Thom's lost track of the amount of times he's been over here, fucking about on Jonny's piano in a hunt for something, anything, that might inspire him, and they've ended up in here, eating either a takeaway, or something simple but tasty Jonny's rustled up in a few minutes, late in the evening. He pulls out one of the seats, perches half on it with his leg dangling. He can feel he's beginning to get hungry, but it's nothing pressing at the moment, and all he really, really wants, is to spend some time with Jonny.

“How've you been?” Jonny speaks from behind him, and Thom twists and ducks his head to the right, where he's hunched over the table, to follow Jonny's progress as he heads to the kettle.

“Hmm? Oh, fine. Bored.” He scratches at the stubble he wasn't sure if it was presumptive or not to shave off before he began his journey over. “Nothing's coming to mind for me when I sit down and try to write.”

Jonny nods as he reaches into one of the wall-mounted cupboards above the worktop to bring down two mugs. “Same as after every tour ends, then.” Jonny knows him well enough not to bother with a questioning inflection. It's enviable to Thom, Jonny's prolific output, even directly after the rest of them are burnt out and haggard.

Thom hums to himself in assent, letting his eyes skim around the kitchen, so familiar, suddenly different in his new knowledge. “What was that you were playing before?”

Jonny pauses with a box of teabags in his hands, close to his chest, face blank with confusion as he stares back. “What? Oh, that? Nothing really, just something that came to me.” He's quiet for a few moments, putting everything away, getting their cups organised as the water comes to a roaring boil, and Thom tilts his head, rolls his neck, a little unsure of himself, why he's here. He starts when a mug is placed down in front of him, mutters his thanks softly, and watches as Jonny recedes to lean back against the counter in front of the sink, opposite him, tea clasped between both hands and beneath his chin.

Thom struggles to come up with a thread of conversation, though he keeps picking his mind for one, sure he's rendering himself frayed and unappealing even as he's sat here. Jonny must've only invited him over to talk, let him down gently; now he's had the time to think, he doesn't truly want Thom. And that's okay – it is – it's fine, understandable, more than expected: a given, and really, it's nice of Jonny to do it so privately-

“Thom.”

He flinches, lifting his eyes from the glassy surface of his drink to meet Jonny's, blinks twice, three times, and he can't help his gaze skittering away. He smiles, tightly, trying to infuse gratitude into his voice as he begins to extricate himself from his seat, cause he sure as hell knows it probably wouldn't be found in his body-language. “Look, Jonny, I'm really grateful for you inviting me around, but it's okay, you don't need to tell me, it's fi-”

He shouldn't have taken his eyes off Jonny, nor turned his back to him, because now he's here, in front of him, filling his vision, a hand circling a large portion of Thom's upper arm easily, and he's in no way prepared for it, feels the overwhelming urge to cling like a burr to Jonny and never let go.

“Thom!” He nods, bewildered at the sudden edge of fear in that voice. “Thom, why do you think I asked you to come round?” He leaves Thom at a loss for words, for once, scrabbling in his mind for some rationale that will come out of his mind not sounding like it's self-pitying, not like he thinks bad of the man before him, not like he's honestly, genuinely, scared in this moment.

“I. I really don't know, Jonny.” He avoids his deep stare, how Jonny's trying his best to engage him, quite fearful in this moment. There's so much between then, so much they could ruin in so many ways, and yet, something a bit like hope flickers in his chest. He's shocked by laughter, but it's unsure, tinged itself with surprise.

“Thom, Thom, look at me, please?” Hands land lightly on the sides of his face, cradling the points of his jaw, thumbs on his cheeks, and steer him to look straight at Jonny. “I should've kissed you as soon as you walked in.”

He stutters for a moment, trying to find his feet, drawing upon whatever reserves of flippancy he has to keep up the momentum, not let it get weird, cause it all falls on him; Jonny's looking more terrified as each second glacially unfolds, he's made his position plain, and now it's Thom's turn. He can't help but lick his lips, thrills a little as Jonny's hawk-sure stare drops down to the movement, stays there for a few beats more, and it emboldens him, sudden devilment filling him. A smile – one he's not wholly sure is his own, because where did _that_ come from – creeps across his lips, and he ends up baring his teeth, quite predatorily, ready for Jonny to snap him up: wanting him to. “Well,” And his voice isn't his own, it's lower and smoother than he could've made it, as he stares right back into those dark eyes, “What were you waiting for?”

He's being dragged by the hand up the stairs before he can even trace Jonny's movements, and he can't help but laugh, a weird kind of delight bubbling up in his stomach, and swirling and meshing with the adrenaline flooding his veins too. It's just like performing, only entirely different: he's so anticipatory, so ready for Jonny, even though he doesn't know what's going to happen next, is desperate to, gasping, his lungs working like bellows after their surge up the flight of stairs. Jonny flings the door to his bedroom open in an effortless sweep, and finally turns to Thom, pulling him forwards by the wrist, and Thom stumbles over his own feet, straight into him, hands clutching fitfully at the material covering his chest.

“Jonny, Jonny, oh my god, mmph!” _Now_ he's being kissed, backed against the door Jonny's managed to negotiate closed behind him, pressed hard against it, able to feel almost the whole of Jonny against him, only now realising quite how much he's dwarfed with the whole height and breadth of Jonny here, right here. His neck's bent, somewhat uncomfortably, so he leaps onto the balls of his feet and flings his arms around Jonny's neck, clinging tight as he can and reciprocating ministrations. Jonny's lips are insistent against his, and when he finally licks at Thom's lips, he moans, opens up his mouth readily, gasps a little at their contact, then makes a stunned, rolling sound deep in his chest as Jonny presses their hips together, and fuck, fuck, okay, so this is how it is. The mechanics of it are something Thom knows of, and yet never really entertained, but it's in no way bad, being held tight to a warm, hard body, not in the way he always thought it would be after hearing euphamistic whisperings of it back in school, not claustrophobic or forceful – at least, not in terms of it being against his will, definitely not, but in yet another surprise, the feeling of a force against him, of not being the dominant one - not really - is really quite pleasurable – and he arches into the pressure, writhes against Jonny's front, grinning with clenched teeth as Jonny breaks away to exhale brokenly.

His smugness only lasts a second or two more before Jonny leans back in to nose at his neck, hair tickling and smooth against him, before mouthing hotly at his pulse-point, leaving Thom mewling. And then hands are at his front, clever, clever hands, scrabbling to pull Thom's top up and away from his stomach and over his head, and he has to re-engage his brain to lift his arms and facilitate his escape from his own clothes, impatient and fidgeting with Jonny's own. The room's air is cool on his skin, eliciting more shivers, and he tips his head back against the door to just marvel as Jonny disrobes, watching the play of muscles beneath his skin, his shoulders and arms, feeling an almost out of place glee at the idea of finally having _this_ , this person whom he adores so much, as something even closer than their friendship. It's perhaps the logical conclusion to their two decade long courtship, and it's burning Thom up from the inside, the thought of finally laying his hands on his smooth skin, and there being no possibility of him baulking and walking away, leaving him behind.

Jonny pulls off his jeans hastily, eyes still locked onto Thom from beneath his fringe, at where he's practically pinned to the door, unmoving, basking. Once they're dropped to the floor in a puddle of folds and creases, Jonny sweeps them aside with his foot, socks quickly following, and reaches for the front of Thom's jeans, fingers slipping beneath the waistband and making him hiss out a breath at their relative chill. He's never been so turned on as when Jonny undoes the button, still staring at him, undoes the fly, begins drawing his jeans and boxers down, follows their path and fuck, Jonny's still easily able to kiss his sternum knelt down, and trails his lips up and over Thom's neck as he moves to stand fully, before stepping away, Thom left naked and shivering and very, very hard, in the middle of the room.

“Fuck you.” He can barely gasp it out, hungry for more contact between them. He doesn't ever want to let go of Jonny once they're coupled, wants merely to exist as an extraneous part of him.

Jonny hums, a smirk in his voice, as he tilts his head, hair following in its wake to dangle in his eyes. “Not today. Well, maybe later?” And then he shakes his fringe from his face, smiles sunnily, brightly, leaving Thom's heart racing more, and delight in his voice as he laughs, springing forwards to pounce on Jonny, counting on his reflexes to catch him, and not just let him end up sliding to the floor. He leans in to nip at Jonny's neck, gratified at feeling his panting breaths against his shoulder, and then they're moving – he knows this from the tantalising shift of Jonny's body and the fan of air against his back – and he's falling, down, being pressed into the sheets and mattress by a heavy body against him. Thom stretches like a cat, digs his heels in and pushes his hips up, keening at the pleasure – maybe playing it up, just a bit - and smiling sharply as he draws his hands all the way up Jonny's back, leaving rosy trails in their wake. Jonny shifts again, and Thom's left cold as he hops off the bed, a hand trailing up his thigh and cupping his knees, and he watches as Jonny pulls off his underwear, finally, and honestly, Thom could die right now, he's dizzy with lust, doesn't know why Jonny isn't on top of him right this instant, until he watches him pass by the bed, open a drawer, and pull out a little tube and a foil packet.

Oh. Ohhh. That makes sense. Of course Jonny's more forward-thinking, if it was down to Thom they'd be fucking right now, and that isn't a mental image Thom really needs at the moment, his cock giving a twitch, as though he needed further confirmation that he does, indeed, want Jonny to fuck him, right now.

He stares back up at Jonny, heavy-lidded, hoping that he's projecting how much he disapproves of the current distance between them, that it'll hurry Jonny up. Sure enough, Jonny alights on the bed, mattress dipping as he shifts his weight until he's knelt neatly between Thom's splayed legs, and Thom props himself up on his elbows, watching with barely disguised curiosity as Jonny gives himself a few hard strokes, shifting and widening his stance so his knees are further apart, head tipped back and lips parted. It's obscene, and yet Thom feels like he's seen Jonny like this before, realises, with a start, that practically any time Jonny's got lost in the music, _their_ music, he's looked this debauched, and fuck, Thom didn't need to know that. He'll never be able to scour that idea from his mind.

“Fucking hell-” He cuts himself off shoots out a hand to try to grab at Jonny and move him close, he needs him closer right now. “Jonny, come here, please!” The look he receives in answer isn't reassuring, instead filling his stomach with butterflies, and he drops himself back against the cool quilt, waiting, just waiting, to be pushed into the covers. Jonny makes a few more sounds, ostensibly as he rolls the condom on, and then there's the sound of a cap flicking open, more soft noises, and then there's a warm palm across the sharp just of Thom's hipbone, thumb sweeping back and forth, treading the line between comforting and teasing, before Thom yelps as a finger cool with gel circles his entrance. Thom takes some deep breaths, tries to quell the worry in the pit of his stomach – it's not that he thinks Jonny will hurt him, more that he knows it probably would anyway, and he's uncomfortable, unsure what to expect. He feels Jonny shift again, and then Jonny's in his periphery, leaning down to kiss Thom across his chest, first chaste and dry, numerous, darted all over, hair following and tickling and adding layers to the sensations already all clamouring for his focus. Jonny's left hand drifts closer to Thom's groin as he begins working at Thom, and he wriggles a bit at the sensation of invasion, frowning. Jonny starts nipping at his chest, lightly still, skimming his fingertips around the base of Thom's cock, and he can feel himself relaxing into the barrage of sensation, it all washing over him. He remains on his back, hips jerking at Jonny's ministrations, feeling oddly frustrated, until he realises he wants Jonny in him right now, hadn't wanted to wait at all, hadn't known this was necessary, and he's suddenly glad Jonny's doing this first, rather than Thom.

Jonny keeps working at Thom, and he's adjusting, breaths coming steady and strong and only sometimes faltering, when Jonny's fingers catch that spot inside him, and he can't help but choke down air to keep himself from feeling like he's drowning. Jonny's movements are less cautious now, more decisive, and insistent, and he can feel himself bending to Jonny's wants, his needs, opening himself up and offering himself up on a platter. His knees fall further to the side, and Jonny's playful nips become firmer, slower and bolder, and he laves at the reddening skin he leaves behind. “More.” Thom gasps, and Jonny pauses for a second, before practically flattening himself against Thom, fixing his teeth at the tendons in Thom's neck and beginning to stroke his cock, pressing a third finger in alongside the two already there. Thom hollers, breathless, at the cacophony of pure feeling, his heart beating a quickstep against his ribs, and he writhes and moans at how much there is to feel, the points of pleasure and pain and being stretched all merging to leave him aching and wanting and completely helpless, soft like butter in Jonny's hands.

“C'mon Jonny.” He can barely string words together, he's just so overwhelmed by sensation. “I need you.” It's true. If Jonny stopped everything right now, Thom thinks he might go mad at the loss. He feels, right now, that he's so understood by Jonny, that he'll never be complete without him. “Fuck me, please.” He barely has to try to make his voice sound pitiable – not that he needed to implore Jonny any further, from the stuttering gasps from beside his ear as his words fully registered. Jonny draws up, sits back on his heels, and Thom feels towered over, so small. The loss of fingers leaves him empty and his breaths hitching, desperate pants. Hands skim over his hips and along his legs, ticklish on the backs of his thighs, before reaching the creases of his knees. Jonny pulls him closer, their hips finally flush, and he locks his legs around Jonny's waist, fingers clenching in the sheets to either side of him in anticipation.

Jonny pushes against him, and Thom's stomach lurches, and then he gasps, and fuck, he hadn't thought he could feel that much _closer_ to Jonny, but it's like nothing else, they're one and the same like this, sharing the same space, practically. Jonny is strong and solid above him, pressing Thom down so he can barely move but shift urgently beneath, him, breaths coming quick like he running; like he's prey hunted down, and as Jonny finally begins rolling his hips, he hugs Thom tight, kissing the top of Thom's head, leaning down to skim his teeth over the juncture of Thom's neck and shoulder, and Thom reciprocates in kind, sweeping his lips and tongue over the parts of Jonny he can reach: his shoulders, his neck, beneath his jaw, sucking and nipping and gasping damply against the soft flesh there as Jonny hits that same spot within him again, again, his cock rubbing against Jonny's firm stomach, until he comes, with a choked-back gasp, carried away on a wave of pleasure.

Jonny keeps moving his hips firmly, nosing at Thom's hair and panting, until he comes too, taking a moment to regain his senses, shivering, feels the stickiness between them as he pulls away and out, gently as he can manage. Thom cracks an eye open and sees the look he's been given, fond and slightly concerned, and returns a look of pleased satisfaction, with as genuine a smile as he can muster – not that it's difficult, being that he's with his favourite person in the world, and blissed-out. He follows Jonny's progress around the room as he deals with the condom, then seems to consider something, a sly grin overtaking his features, enough to concern Thom. He dips to snag something from the floor – a top – and it only dawns on Thom that it was his after Jonny's cursorily cleaned the come of both their stomachs.

“Hey!”

If anything, Jonny's smirk grows. “I guess you'll just have to wear one of mine tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, eh?” He grins back, enjoying the easiness between them once again. “What makes you think I'm leaving, ever? You'll never be rid of me now”

Jonny's teasing look turns into something a bit more serious, a bit more real, and Thom realises, that more than anything, he really does love Jonny. “Sounds alright to me.”


End file.
